


Nightmare

by Chubbidust



Category: Splatoon
Genre: M/M, idk i typed this at 2 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21520369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chubbidust/pseuds/Chubbidust
Summary: Agent 3 hates how he seems to be more negatively affected by the events that happened underground more than Agent 8.This bottles up into a mini-breakdown.
Relationships: Agent 3 & Agent 8 (Splatoon), Agent 3/Agent 8 (Splatoon)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 2 am i am SORRY if it's shitty i am SORRY OKAY

Agent 3 wished he was never involved in rescuing Agent 8. 

Don’t get him wrong- He loved the young octoling and enjoyed being in his company all the time. They had clicked almost instantly as soon as they laid eyes on each other, and even though their relationship had a bit of a rocky start, they ended up becoming good friends and a bit more. What started as a nervous, awkward roommate situation turned into a warm, comforting bond between the two cephalopods as they grew more appreciative of each other’s company, despite the circumstances in which they met.

But...Agent 3 couldn’t ever shake what happened before the happy ending, before everything ended up okay. When he dove in to rescue Eight and Cap’n from that rotten phone one moment and was knocked unconscious the next. Before he knew it, his body was being moved against his will and he could _feel_ the twisted, disgusting goop on his face digging into his flesh. It sent shivers up his imaginary spine whenever he thought of the feeling, and he’d repeatedly find himself scratching at the scars the blended ink left on the right side of his face.

He hated it so much.

The memories kept striking him when he least expected it. One moment, he’d be handing Eight a cup of water as the octoling was peacefully reading a book, and the next he’d find himself pinning the agent down with a severe, burning desire to turn him into a mere bloody smear. The younger agent’s eyes would be looking at him with warmth and love, yet in a blink would turn cold and terrified with sparkling tears slipping down his flushed cheeks.

The memory would come and go in an instant, but the emotions from it would always linger for a little longer than Three desired. It was especially hard, since he’d always zone out during these flashbacks, and it’d usually take a nudge or two from the other party he was with to bring him back to reality.

Those were just the flashbacks, though. The nightmares, however, were a whole different story.

For weeks after the whole ordeal, Three was plagued with constant nightmares of that one conflict between himself and Eight. Time and time again, he’d jerk awake and find himself on the brink of a panic attack- the image of himself _winning the fight_ was always what set him off. Eight’s twisted, mangled body under his feet with his face held frozen in a look of horror, eyes completely unfocused- it fucked him up and it fucked him up _good._

Eight would always wake up shortly after he did, confused for why Three had suddenly woken up out of nowhere. And every time, Three would lie. Lie, lie, lie. 

“I’m fine.” He would whisper in the quietest of voices, face turned away from the other agent to not dare let him see the weakness in his eyes.

Eight wasn’t stupid, and Three knew that. The young octoling knew that something was up with Three, but he wasn’t prying at all. Every time Three lied, he’d take it with a soft sigh and leave it at that with no comment. It made the inkling feel guilty as hell, but he’d feel even worse dumping his problems onto the other agent, even though he had gone through much more of a hellish time in those months underground than Three ever did in his entire life. Agent 3 was the savior of Inkopolis. He didn’t need to dump his mediocre and miniscule problems onto the pile Eight already had to worry about. He could deal with it. Usually.

Tonight was not one of those nights, however. Another nightmare had forced Agent 3 awake, making him fight and thrash against the blankets on top of himself. When the cursed blankets had finally accepted their defeat, the agent promptly sat up with a deep gasp, choking lightly on the small lump in his throat. Three shook his head vigorously as his mind started recalling the vivid nightmare, the grotesque images of the horrific actions he had done mid-dream actually making him nauseous.

Once the initial shock of the nightmare faded away, Three started gripping the blankets tightly in his fists, glancing over at the still sleeping Agent 8 by his side. The octoling looked nothing like how he did in Three’s dream just a few moments ago, his main tentacle idly swaying as he dreamt peaceful dreams instead of violently thrashing with emotion as he fought for his life. His eyes were gently closed and his eyebrows were relaxed and calm, unlike how in Three’s dream where he’d have his eyes squinted shut tightly and his eyebrows deeply furrowed, mouth formed in a painful grimace as Three dug his sharp claws into his-

 _“Fuck_. Fu-Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Three’s breath hitched, and he momentarily forgot that he was still staring down at the octoling by his side. How weird of him, honestly.

Yet- he couldn’t stop looking at him. The contrast between reality and his imagination was unbelievable. Just a few minutes ago, Eight was pinned down yet again by the brainwashed Agent 3, crying as he clawed at Three’s face with his hands, desperate to be freed from his painful grasp. And yet, he was right here, in a very deep slumber, pain free. How does he do it? How does he do it?

It disgusted Three- how he was so traumatized over an event that he had no reason to be. It was Eight that was supposed to be scared, it was Eight who needed the help and comfort. He was the one that nearly died almost a million times when underground, deep within a metro full of unknown beings with mysterious intentions. He was the one that had to fight for his life by himself, with intense amnesia that left him confused and lost. He was the one that had no choice but to trust strangers and cope with the thought that he may never have left the damn metro if luck wasn’t on his side. He was the one that had to stare Three in the eyes as he fought for his right to be free on the surface, painfully gritting his teeth in determination as the controlled inkling got a few hits in, knowing that if he weren’t careful, Three could’ve killed him in one perfect strike.

How could Three be so selfish? Constantly thinking about his own failures instead of helping Eight adjust to Inkopolis. How could he? How _dare_ he? How dare he be tortured by shitty nightmares, daily reminding him of how close he was to becoming a murderer?

How dare he, when Eight was sleeping just fine right beside him?

…

Three couldn’t breathe. Oh no, oh no. He couldn’t breathe.

He hadn’t realized how tense he had gotten, nor how his knuckles were almost as white as a sheet, given how tightly they were still gripping the blankets. He could hear his heartbeats in his ears, all three of them pounding loudly as if they were a part of a marching band with the primary goal of being the most obnoxious. His vision wasn’t fairing much better, either. What had been perfectly clear just minutes earlier turned into a blurry, swimming mess all across his vision. He couldn’t see anything and he couldn’t tell what he was looking at- and given his current mental state, he didn’t have the ability to figure out why anymore.

Everything was getting dark, and the small lump in his throat from earlier was suffocating him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t hear. He couldn’t do anything. He was fucking up so much right now, everything was fucking up. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think!! No breathing. Everything hurt and nothing was making sense-

How ironic that Three couldn’t breathe, considering how fucking close he was to **_screaming._ **

“Three…?” A somewhat tired yet concerned voice whispered, seemingly far away. Three desperately tried to make it come closer, he needed it. He needed out of this goddamn real life nightmare of his. He couldn’t _breathe._

Two hands rested their palms on top of his own, both of them full of reassuring warmth and life. They slowly coaxed his own hands to cease their tight grips on the blankets, instead allowing themselves to be held and squeezed.

“You okay, Three…” The voice whispered once again, this time a lot closer. It was familiar and definitely was helping Three out of this mess he was in. He could compare it almost to soothing music, a calm melody that was allowing his body to finally relax from all his stresses.

Suddenly- Three could see a face. Amidst the darkness, he could make out a young face with bright, twinkling eyes and a soft, reassuring smile. Agent 8. He was awake. And sitting in his lap.

Three was too out of it to care that he was a goddamn mess in front of the other agent. He exhaled a rough, shuddering breath as he started gaining back his senses. His face was hot- his entire body was hot, yet he was shaking as if he was on the North Pole. He could feel something slipping down the sides of his face, and it didn’t take much problem solving for him to realize that it was his own tears.

Eight leaned in close and temporarily let go of Three’s hands, making use of his arms instead to wrap around Three for a tender, gentle hug. His long-sleeved pajama shirt had a soft texture, which made Three almost believe he was being covered by a much warmer, nicer smelling blanket.

After a moment, Three found it within himself to reach his trembling arms up and wrap them around the octoling in a tight embrace, sniffling as he felt his wet cheeks start growing cold.

“It will be okay.” Eight murmured, slightly tightening his hold on Three. His grasp on the inkling language was nowhere near perfect, so he elected to keep his sentences short and simple for the time being. Three was perfectly okay with that.

They stayed in that position for a little while, allowing Three to finally calm down and get his bearings. Which also meant that he fully realized what had just transpired, and was understandably embarrassed as a result.

“...Sorry.” He barely managed to utter under his shaky breath, the word almost completely inaudible. A slight twitch from Eight’s left ear confirmed he heard it, however.

“Everyone...scared.” The octoling tried to comfort, making an odd face as he struggled to piece together words in his mind, “Dreams are not nice. I have dreams are not nice, too.”

He placed his hands back over Three’s and gave a small squeeze, flashing the inkling a grin. Three felt himself send a weak smile back.

“I am here if need me. Stop...bottle sad. Not good for you.” He stated simply, reaching over at the discarded blankets and throwing them back over their bodies.

Then, with one quick motion, Eight leaned over and placed one small kiss on Three’s still wet, very cold cheek. Well, definitely not cold anymore.

“Let’s sleep, now. Dreams are dreams. May be scary, but they are dreams. Talk to me, if too scary.” He mumbled, plopping his head back on his pillow and dozing right back off. 

It took Three a moment to process what'd just happened, but he found himself laying right back down as well, snuggling close to the octoling as he let the escapes of sleep consume him once more.

  
  



End file.
